The queen greeted the assassin in the royal study just before dawn. Her brocade dressing gown winked in the light from the candelabras, her blonde hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders, beginning to gray at the temples.

“Wil,” she said. “It’s good to see you.” She pulled him into a hug. She let go of him, and cupped his face in her hands. “It’s been a while, my dear. I assume you were successful in your search for Connall Dormys?”

Wil nodded. His fingers drummed on the hilt of the knife at his hip. The queen turned and stepped behind the massive wooden desk in the center of the room. She opened a drawer and took out a small purse, filled nearly to bursting with his payment. She set it on the desk and Wil took it, weighing its heft in his hand. The coins clinked inside the purse, and he tucked it into the pocket of his jacket.

Wil gave his adopted mother a small smile. Where is Father? he signed, gesturing with his hands.

“His leg has been bothering him lately, what with all the rain we’ve been having,” she said. “He sends his love.”

Is he all right?

“Yes, he’s fine,” she said. “You could see for yourself if you decided to join us here once in a while.”

He shook his head. I have my work to do, he signed. You’ve kept me busy.

“Well, you should come by,” the queen said. She gave him a look that was both teasing and scolding, her eyebrows rising. “Have supper with us. We miss you when you aren’t around.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Wil’s lips. I’ll come by tomorrow night, he signed. Do you have my next assignment?

“Not yet, but your father is on the heels of some rebel,” she said. “Be ready for a message in the coming days.”

Wil nodded and kissed his mother on the cheek. He turned and wordlessly pulled open the door to the study, stepping out into the dark hall.

The guards outside the royal study and stationed through the halls of the palace let him pass, unsurprised by his presence at such an odd hour. He descended the grand staircases and made his way out through the front gates and into the streets of Ennore.

The sun was rising over Serin’s capital city. Wil blinked against the glint of the sun against the ceramic roof tiles and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He walked quickly, his strides long as he zigzagged along the streets.

The buildings of Ennore were smooth plaster, the foundations made of rough stone that jutted out from the walls. Chimneys stood crookedly on the roofs, some leaking dark smoke into the sky as the citizens warmed their homes against the chill of the spring night. Across the city, Connall Dormys’ body was likely being found. His blood was dried by now, his brown and green eyes still open.

Witches’ eyes were always two different colors. It was one of the several hallmarks that set them apart. Every witch that Wil passed on the streets of Ennore had them.

They also all wore collars of bright silver around their throats. Like the arrowhead that had pierced Dormys’ flesh mere hours ago, the silver collars stifled a witch’s abilities on contact.

The witches of Ennore wore silver on the king’s orders. Magic was illegal not only in Serin but also its neighbors, punishable by imprisonment at best and death at worst. It was deemed so only twenty-five years ago by a doctrine written by a few kings deciding the fate of hundreds of thousands with the stroke of a quill. Any witch caught performing it was condemned, not that it helped a witch’s fate not to. Any with witch’s blood in their veins was condemnable. Anyone with eyes of two different colors—even half witches, whose eyes had partial discoloration—could be marked as one, and shackled as one too.

Wil made his way to the small square near the center of Ennore. It wasn’t the big market square that housed most of the city’s merchants and events, but the one that boasted the gallows. And the pyre.

Though it was just the edge of dawn, the small square was crowded with people. Wil paused and lingered in the back of the throngs of people, watching the display up at the pyre.

It was built onto a raised dais, so spectators could see properly. The stake stood tall, the wood singed from years of fires. Fresh hay and kindling lay at its base, ready to be lit by a torch. The crowd clamored as the city guard brought a witch woman out from the barracks behind the pyre’s platform. The crowd jeered at the woman as the guards escorted her bound by silver manacles with her hands in front of her

She was dirty and disheveled, her hair in tangles. The guards hauled her onto the dais and unlocked her manacles only to latch them again behind her back to secure her to the stake. Wil could see her crying from across the square; her tears traced lines in the dirt on her face as they rolled down her cheeks.

Wil couldn’t hear the people in the crowd, but they jabbed fists and pointed fingers at the woman, and he knew they were screaming for the witch’s death. A guard stepped up onto the platform and read the witch’s sentence from a thick paper scroll. Wil was too far away to read the movements of the guard’s lips, but he guessed the woman had been caught using magic. The crowd erupted, yelling at the woman, who flinched at their shouts.

Wil didn’t have to read the lips of the people in the crowd to know what they were saying. “Burn the witch,” they shouted. “Burn the witch, burn the witch.”

The guard stepped down and another took his place, brandishing a torch. He set the hay and kindling at the witch’s feet alight, and smoke rose from the base of the pyre.

The crowd continued to jeer before the dais. Some people turned away, covered the eyes of their children. But most people watched, captivated. Wil felt a wave of heat from the fire, felt the thrill of excitement roll through the crowd.

Wil kept his eyes up despite the overwhelming desire to lower them. The woman’s dress caught fire, then her legs, and her face contorted in pain, her mouth wide in a scream Wil was grateful he couldn’t hear. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. The flames licked up the witch’s body and consumed her, burning up her clothing like a candlewick.

He finally let himself look away when her flesh caught fire and began to crack and split under the flames. The witch had stopped screaming by then, her face frozen in an open-mouthed portrait of anguish.

Wil stuffed his hands into his pockets as walked away from the small square, leaving the crowd to its gruesome justice. He walked along the cobblestones across the city as the sun rose over Ennore, until the wind rolled over the city and he could no longer smell the witch’s burning body.

Wil lived in a flat above a cobbler. The building smelled of leather and metal, though the shop was not yet open this early in the morning. He climbed the stairs and unlocked the door. It was dark inside, the shutters still closed against the morning light. He shucked off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. Unbuckling his belt, he removed the sheath of his sword and the pair of daggers that usually hung on his hips.

His flat was spacious; Wil’s adopted parents paid well for the work he did for them. He had a small but well-stocked kitchen, a washroom, and a bed tucked into the opposite corner. He left the shutters closed as he crossed to the kitchen.

A round disk of bread hung from a hook attached to the ceiling, and he ripped off a chunk, absently chewing it as his stomach rumbled. He’d been out all night, and hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He finished the bread and wiped the crumbs from his hands. He turned, tired from his long night, and collapsed onto the mattress.

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing the weariness of the night from his eyes. His fingers ran through the dark waves of his hair. His eyes opened, and they were bright blue, one iris interrupted by a broad streak of dark brown like the color of dried blood.